Contact Info

Saturday, October 14, 2017

From the Ashes

A howling wind beat against the windows of our bedroom, keeping us awake as the branches of our apricot tree snapped on the glass. A loud noise startled us, and Mark got up to check to make sure nothing important had blown over. Just the neighbor's umbrella, go back to sleep.

The first siren went by around 1:00 am or so. Not unusual, we live just a few blocks from one of the largest intersections in town. They rarely register anymore, and our dogs don't even bother to howl at them; even they know they'd go hoarse in a matter of a few hours on the busiest weekends. But soon it was followed by another, then another, until it was a chorus of sirens wailing from all over the city.

Mark's iPhone made that choo-choo sound he set as his text alert, which always puts him in a foul mood. It always means a call from work and it's always some sort of problem.

"Huh. My co-worker says he tried to get to work and they wouldn't let him up the street." Mark scratched his head, then rubbed his beard. He does that a lot when he's frustrated and grumpy.

The train noise sounded again. This time someone who was at work. "He says they're being told to leave, there's a fire coming. He's asking if it's ok to leave." Then his phone rang. Funny how no one actually calls anymore, texting seems to be the preferred method of communication. Except in an emergency.

After he hung up, Mark was wide awake. A deputy had come by the building and told everyone to evacuate, that a fire was coming down the hillside and crews couldn't get there fast enough to stop it. We both put on shorts and ran outside into the warm wind. It was 1:30am.

Looking north from the middle of our street, you could see an ominous orange glow. Smoke was blocking out the stars, and loud booming noises would occasionally sound out making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. This wasn't good.

The sirens continued to scream by on the main street behind our house. They seemed to be going in all directions. Our neighbors started coming outside and standing in the street with us. Everyone was disheveled, wide awake but not ready to believe what was happening.

"It's getting closer."

"How close do you think it is?"

"Should we get ready to leave?"

We went back inside and looked for news. At 2 in the morning, even the most die-hard newscaster is asleep. Nothing was being broadcast, no text alerts, no phone calls. It happened too quickly, and too early in the morning.

Around 5am Mark couldn't stand it anymore, and took a drive down the street. He was stopped about a mile away at the edge of our neighborhood by a road block. He didn't have to ask why; there were flames shooting up from the trees on the not-so-distant hill.

He came home and reported this to the neighbors who were still milling around with the collars of their shirts pulled up over their mouths. The smoke was getting thicker and ash was starting to fall around us. No one had come by to evacuate us, but the decision was made to be ready anyway, things were happening way too fast. Besides, standing around listening to the more frequent and louder booms was spooking us. (These sounds turned out to be propane tanks, transformers and trees, bursting into flames.)

For all my talk of paring down and shedding material things in my life, I wasn't quite prepared to make these decisions at dawn on a Monday morning. In fact, no one should be asked to make any important decision at dawn on a Monday morning, other than whether to hit the snooze button one more time or give up and haul out of bed.

In the end, we packed a few days worth of clothing and I swept the top of the desk into a backpack along with our laptop and backup hard drive and our wedding album. Our passports got stuck in a front pocket and a few bits of jewelry as well. I hoped that at least one of each of our account numbers were included in the stacks of bill stubs I so stubbornly hold onto. For once in my life my messiness might pay off.

We grabbed the dog's food and their bowls and water dish, our sleeping bags and pillows, camera equipment (that was thankfully all in one place having just come back from a trip) and our sundries bag we always take with us when we camp. Our camper always has food, water, blankets, stove, and cooking utensils inside so we'd be fine wherever we ended up. I also filled a bag with canned food, sport drinks and that boxed milk that doesn't spoil.

We didn't have to go. They stopped the fire just about one and a half miles from our house.

For the last four days, we've been on high alert. The fire we saw was the most widespread of the multiple fires that were whipped up by the 60-80 mile per hour gusts that night. They're still going on, and every shift of the wind, every siren that goes by, every text message from the Nixle alert system I signed up for, makes my heart skip a beat.

The toll is still climbing, and the fires continue to burn. An estimated 2000 homes have burned so far, 21 people are confirmed dead, and there are many hundreds missing. We personally know at least 15 families who have lost their homes. One of my co-workers is on the missing list.

I think we have survivors guilt. We didn't lose our home or get evacuated, unlike 50,000 others in our area. We never lost power either, and our natural gas wasn't cut off like many of the neighborhoods nearby. We still have our own bed to sleep in, our own shower to wash the smoke smell out of our hair. Our dogs have a backyard to run around in and we still have drivable cars. Mark's work made it through the fire, although the damage was enough to put them out of commission for at least a few weeks. My work was farther away, escaping the damage but without power for the first few days of the week. I spent my nervous energy baking cookies and making enough meatballs to feed us for four months, stacking containers filled to the brim in the freezer.

The sadness runs deep. I feel horrible for those that lost their homes, the pets that died in the fire because they were scared and didn't come when called. The fires burned so hot, it was unsafe until now to go in and look for the missing. I'm afraid of what they will find.

During the peak of the fires, I was too scared to think much about what was happening, beyond what I needed to do to get away if it got too close. The next morning though, after the most significant danger seemed to pass, I walked outside to check on the house and yard. The smoke was hanging in the air, and a light rain of ash was falling, mimicking the silent, slow falling of snowflakes. Bits of ash were piled up on our front steps, and among them were skeletal leaves, perfectly formed until you touched them and they dissolved into grey dust. Bits of burnt paper and fabric and wood fell on the walkway, all formerly someones books and clothes and home. I tried not to cry.

It's written that the mythical Phoenix rose from the ashes, symbolizing the renewal of life. I'm not a religious person, nor am I much of a believer in mystical or spiritual interpretations of events. I think though, that if any place has a fighting chance to rise again, it's here, my hometown.

We certainly have enough ashes to make a good start.

Tuesday, August 29, 2017


I've been thinking a lot about the concept of home lately.

I never thought I'd be old enough to think about retiring, but here I am, almost there. I can't stop thinking about it: How much money will we need? How much longer do we have to work to be able to afford doing what we like to do? How much longer will our bodies allow us to do it? If we decide to sell everything and live on the road full time, where will we go eventually, when we can no longer travel (or want to)?

What will home look like in the future?

This whole concept came to me in a strange swirl of fond memories and bittersweet moments a few weeks ago as I tore apart my childhood home.

Before you start thinking I drove a wrecking ball through a suburban "mid-century modern" tract home like some sick reenactment of a HGTV reality series, it actually was more in line with taking a screwdriver to my old dollhouse. That's right, I still had the dollhouse from when I turned 5.

The walls came down, but not without a fight.
As I took each screw out of the pressboard walls, I couldn't help but think about how my Dad put it together, with those very same screws, carefully lining up the bedrooms, kitchen, bathroom and living room, topping it off with a metal chimney on a shingle-painted roof.

Dad (who's now been gone fourteen years) could build anything, and when he did, he did it to last. That pressboard and paper house, with it's metal chimney, stood for almost 50 years in one room or another everywhere I have lived. It was shoved in the attic for a few years while I was in college, but the minute I had my own place Mom delivered my old toys, the decision to keep or discard off her conscience. I got rid of a lot of old things, but could never quite give up the dollhouse.

Hemingway over the mantel? I never noticed until today.

It's kind of funny because I never played with it much, except to arrange and rearrange the furniture. I never liked dolls, but I was fascinated with putting things together and putting things in their place. That would be laughable now, especially to Mark, if you saw the clutter hanging out in our house, but at the time it seemed very important that everything was in the right spot. I'd get that house all set up, look at it for a minute, then take all the furniture out, disassembling the molded bed from the plastic headboard, the dining room table from it's legs, and tuck it all away in the storage box. I'd even wipe the rooms clean if there was a little dust.

Maybe my obsession with order in the make believe world has finally spilled into my real one. I love the house Mark and I live in now but I'm starting to be driven nuts by the extra stuff laying around. The older I get the more I appreciate empty space, and that is what eventually drove me to lay waste to my old dollhouse. Because seriously, am I going to dust furniture in a miniature house when I barely have time to dust the real stuff?

Our plan, once we are financially ready, is to take off on a year's tour of the US, working out any kinks with our vehicle while we make our way around the states. After that, drive down to South America. From there we'll go as far as we can make it/afford it. In order to do that we'll have to rent the house out or sell it; either way stuff will have to go.

Some friends of ours are actually doing this right now. They quit their jobs, put their house up for sale, put a few necessary things in storage and are currently outfitting their vehicle for a round the world trip. I'm a little nervous for them, but mostly envious.

For now, we have to be satisfied with our four weeks of vacation and any mini weekend trips we can squeeze in around the edges. Every trip we take makes it that much harder to come home. The more time we spend in the camper makes it feel more like home than home is.

I'm glad Dad built that dollhouse for me. It was well built and held up nicely for almost 50 years. I figure if I can keep my joints that solid and my screws in place as well as that little dollhouse, our retirement will last for a good long stretch. I'm ready to make a home of the road.

Tuesday, August 8, 2017

The Arizona Strip: Snap Point

What's bumpy, two feet shy of the width of an F250 and goes screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee? The road in to Snap Point, that's what. If you'd like to go, just look for the traces of Island Blue paint coating the branches along the game trail that passes for a road to Snap Point.

The Mog trundles it's way through the pines to the turnoff towards Snap Point.

We left Twin Point after a lazy morning wandering around trying not to fall off the edge of the canyon. The foliage is pretty dense there, and sometimes you don't know you're on the cliffside until you step through the branches (you develop of sense of space pretty quickly once you do that a few times).  Paying more attention to the breeze, and the wind noise helps; it's always more breezy and the tone changes when you stand next to a giant void.

We got some good photos and congratulated each other on having the place to ourselves. It was a long drive, but having your own private parking space on the edge of the Grand Canyon is priceless.

We packed up and compared notes on our maps and GPS units before we set off. Snap Point is marked on the BLM Arizona Strip maps, but there is no official road drawn there. We knew there was one, because you could make out the trace outlines on Google Earth, it was a matter of turning down the right path once we got close. Craig and Rasa, our trusty rally driver friends, would lead the way while looking for the GPS waypoint they had marked on their map.

A snapdragon-like flower that grew in abundance on the mesas above the North Rim.

We chose Snap Point because it looked like a great place to camp, and because of it's proximity to a plane crash that Craig was interested in finding. In 1972, an F111A was doing a training exercise over the Grand Canyon when things went sideways. Mistakes were made, and the student and trainer pilots had to eject. This particular plane was set up so ejection isn't the typical seat that pops out of the plane you see in the movies, but the entire cockpit module. They were able to safely separate from the rest of the plane, and as the body went down into the canyon and slammed into one of the walls, the cockpit parachuted "gently" (as gently as something like that can go) down onto a small plateau jutting out about a quarter of the way down into the canyon. From this precarious perch, they teetered and slid a few hundred feet more until the capsule settled on it's roof. They were injured, but were able to get out of the thing and were rescued, a happy ending that, unfortunately, doesn't come often with these crashes. This would be enough to end my career as a pilot and possibly a passenger, but I doubt that kept these two from flying again.

The F111A (photo credit:
Anyway, as we approached the turn off, things were looking pretty good. Nice dense forest cover of juniper, sage and cactus, all blooming in the May sun. Picture perfect. Then we turned onto the road.

I don't think the road was very well traveled by the looks of things. And all the extra rain Arizona had received over the winter was really putting a boost into the foliage growth. The farther we went, the closer the bushes and trees got to the truck, until the occasional low hanging tree branch bumping along the camper turned into a continuous screeeeeeeeee of brush scratching it's way down our flanks. This was only interrupted by the smacking of larger tree branches as they smashed into the camper rails. Mark's intermittent expletive squeezed out through gritted teeth soon became one long string of profanity. Honestly, I'm pretty impressed that he was able put together such a creative array of vulgarity and drive with such skill at the same time. And they say men can't multi-task.

Our glamorous camp on Snap Point

After three long, paint altering miles, we finally arrived at our camp spot. To look at it, you wouldn't be impressed. It was a clearing in the juniper just big enough to fit all three vehicles with a giant fire ring in the middle in which someone had left a big wooden pallet. It was all slightly wet from the recent rains, and there was no view to speak of. Not the Grand Canyon Awesome that we had quickly become accustomed to. After the painful experience we had just been through though, none of us wanted to face that road again so we settled in and made camp. An afternoon thunderstorm blew over and pelted us with a cold rain and hail, making the soft dirt turn to a sticky mud. It was hard to convince ourselves that this place was worth it.

The rain falls mainly on the plain. And sometimes turns to hail. And occasionally turns to snow.

Rasa and Craig had gone ahead to scout the way down to the mesa top below, trying to find the closest place to launch the plane wreck expedition the next day. Soon they joined us, having added their silver to our blue on the road bushes. We all walked up the road just a few more feet (watching the skies for any errant lightning bolts) and, ahhhhhhh, there it was. Another gorgeous perch, this one overlooking a large mesa below our mesa top, the bright red soil and rock of the cliff sides interlaced with white and yellow-tinged stripes. Parts of the cliff face had been eroded into giant hoodoos reminiscent of Bryce Canyon.

The hoodoo-like formations of Snap Point

The mesa top below us was green with recent growth from the rains. The low sun angled itself under the clouds that afternoon and made everything glow richly. We all dragged our camp chairs to the edge to enjoy the best kind of show there is.

It was worth it after all.

Once the weather cleared it was vibrant from the soaking it received.

The next day we rode along with Craig and Rasa down to our hiking launch spot. We passed an old ranch cabin they had seen the day before and I hopped out to take photos and peek inside. One step out of the truck and...rattlesnake! A big fat rattler was sunning himself right on the "porch" of the cabin.  He crawled under the pallet that served as the front step after flicking his tongue at us. No one felt the need to go inside after that so we settled for outdoor shots, keeping our feet well away from the base of the cabin.

The rattlesnake that greeted us at the door of the cabin.
Mark pointing where Mr. Snake went (lurking just beneath the slats of the pallet)
The cabin was decorated appropriately
The road was paved with wildflowers. Luckily, our high clearance vehicles left them intact for others to enjoy.
Deer on the road. Hope they didn't see the decorations on the cabin...
The view back up toward our campsite on the upper mesa.

We hiked across beautiful cactus gardens and artfully arranged rocks (why can't I do this as well in my own yard? It's hard to beat Mother Nature's sense of style) right to the edge of the canyon. We looked down and realized this was a much longer and more technical hike than we were prepared for. In addition, huge clouds were gathering on the horizon, threatening to turn this trip into another rescue mission. Craig and Mark analyzed the possible routes down to the site, then wisely decided this would have to be saved for another day with an earlier start. By the time we made it back to the truck the clouds had moved overhead and you could see the diagonal streaks in the sky over the mesa indicating distant rain. Good call guys.

Nature's composition, Craig and Mark in the background mulling their options. Note the clouds in the distance.

Back at camp, the rain started looking funny, kind of floaty, was this...snow? We all gathered in the Mog for cocktails waiting for the squall to be over. Two hours and several beers later, the snow stopped falling and we all trekked through the mud to the overlook. Still beautiful. Damned cold, but beautiful all the same.
All layers were needed for this chilly spot on the rim.

These are the things I've learned after traveling in the backcountry of Arizona:
  • You can't plan for the weather, but you can and should pack for anything from excessive heat to snow.
  • You can't control the roads, but you can decide for yourself what you're willing to drive over and through.
  • You can't guarantee a good time, but surround yourself with the right people and things will turn out fine.
Thanks guys. We had a hell of a trip.